


Universal Constants

by llethe



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Five Year Mission, Fluff, Gen, Plot? What Plot?, Science!Kirk, Unfortunate graphic description of a fake STD, crew - Freeform, post-STID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llethe/pseuds/llethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were three constants that were universally true, none of which Jim had known four years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Universal Constants

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek. 
> 
> Word Count: ~2,100  
> Warnings/Ratings: PG-13. Gen/bring your own glasses. Language. Unfortunate graphic description of a fake STD. Fluff. Science!Kirk.  
> Timeline: During the Five Year.  
> Characters: Kirk, crew.
> 
> Author’s Note: This is total, 100% fluff-without-plot. I wrote this back in July with no plot or point in mind; I just wanted to write a happy crew on the Enterprise, without any overarching storyline, and have been sitting on it for no real reason. Now it’s just a fun break from the doom-and-gloom.

There were three constants that were universally true, none of which Jim had known four years ago.  (Well, there probably more than three, but Jim was still figuring this stuff out.)  
  
The first constant: every Captain had his or her quirks that drove their crew insane.  Jim didn’t know what his were, and didn’t want to know what they were, but he was sure he had one or five.  
  
Jim knew of the quirk of only one other living Captain, and that was Captain Orella, who (allegedly) incessantly talked to herself on the bridge.  
  
He knew that only because Scotty told him about it, but Jim wasn’t even sure if it was true.  Scotty exaggerated about everything and even more about people he didn’t like.  Scotty didn’t like Orella.  Therefore, a grain of salt was a little too small to be taken with that one.  
  
Of the two dead Captains that Jim had actually served with, Captain Likan of _Farragut_ never slept and asked for shit in the middle of the night, and Pike was terrifyingly intuitive.  For example, Pike knew Jim inside and out, could anticipate his every melt down, knew exactly what words to say to talk him down, and knew exactly which times to let the melt down take its course.  Those weren’t really quirks, but it was as close as Jim had ever gotten to knowing.  
  
Point being: it was an experience Jim regretted not having, because every Captain compared themselves to the ones they’d had before them.  The best he could do was not talk to himself on the bridge, or wake his crew in the middle of the night, unless: hello there, Catastrophe, haven’t seen _you_ for an hour.  
  
Instead, he made a point to know his crew and to be a reliable cornerstone.  On a ship that ran as well as _Enterprise_ , that was mostly all his crew needed out of him.  
  
Enter Starbase 101.  
  
Even by deep space standards, it was out in the middle of nowhere.  That was important.  Deep space was disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence (“Kid, you’re onto something there.” “…Sure, Bones.  I’m pretty brilliant.”  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”) and, if two years down with three to go didn’t kill morale, shore leave on an expensively maintained Federation dive, smack in the middle of deep space, definitely _would_.  
  
Jim didn’t send his crew to Federation dives.  
  
101 advertised itself as having some nice perks, like they all did.  Starbase 107 was closer to their last mission by four days, but 107 had a…reputation, and not an exciting one.  More like a “everyone comes back sick and then they mutiny you” one, which wasn’t _exactly_ what was advertised.  
  
Jim put in a non-priority call to Lakshmi, the only other Captain that Jim considered a friend, and confirmed that 101 was even better than advertised.  In fact, they had prototype holodecks on beta-test, way ahead of anywhere else.  
  
“No, Kirk, it’s not a beach hologram or whatever _Enterprise_ has.  They’re full-immersion, fully interactive, do whatever-the-hell-you-want programs.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait.  They’re _programmable_?”  
  
“Uh-huh.  All the way.  Think: war games without tying up resources.”  
  
And that…that was almost enough to make Jim rethink his entire planned shore leave.  Almost.  (Also, the holodecks had sounded awesome, until he realized they were one of Marcus’s leftover pet projects, and _nope_.)  But it was definitely enough to keep the crew entertained and off the ship.  
  
That was the goal.

***

Spock was actually taking his leave this time.  By “taking” Jim meant “dragged off the ship by Uhura,” of course.  
  
Uhura (and Carol) tried and tried to drag Jim along, too—and he had no idea where those two were with each other anymore; it was a surprisingly, incredibly liberating realization that he didn’t _actually_ have to know everything about everyone at all times, as long as none of them seemed depressed, homicidal, or otherwise incapacitated—but he didn’t even try to make up a convincing excuse.  
  
He said, flat out, though kindly: “Not interested.  Got plans.  Have fun!”  
  
“All right,” Uhura conceded, not nearly as deflated as Jim expected after two days of failed cajoling.  “Bye!”  
  
It’d been a long six months since the last shore leave on Risa, and they’d covered a ton of hard-won ground since then.  Clearly, Uhura was ready to get off the ship.  Spock, though…  
  
Spock’s eyes narrowed.  Oh, yes, they did.  They totally did.  
  
Behind Uhura’s back, Jim mouthed “water park!” and winked.  It wasn’t Friday, if he wasn’t pushing Spock’s buttons like a kid (or an inebriated starship captain whose name was definitely not at all James T. Kirk and _oh my god_ the booze on Ylanra was a-ma-zing, even if the trade negotiations were totally n-o-t) in a turbolift.  So what if Spock was going to kick his ass when they sparred next?  Same bruises, different day.  
  
“Captain,” Spock said, with a tone that _sounded_ neutral.  Jim knew better.  
  
“Commander,” Jim answered in kind.  He was still working on how to put his smirk away during strenuous times like these.  
  
Three down, one to go.  
  
In Medbay, Bones rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Let me guess.  You want to go bar hopping.”  
  
Jim frowned and said, “No, actually, I’m here to let you down easy.  I got other plans.  You’re flying solo, my friend.”  
  
Bones was his friend, not his babysitter, but always his doctor: “You come back with space herpes again—”  
  
“Bullshit ‘ _again_ ’!”  
  
“—and you’re stuck with them.  I mean it.  Not one damned hypo, Jim.”  
  
Hypos were of the devil, as Ms. Anderson by the empty lot behind Ralph’s in Riverside used to say.   She’d also sell you five for ten credits.  
  
“That’s not a threat.”  
  
Bones’ eyebrows shot up, as high as they’d ever gone before (if this was that old-fashioned carnival game with the hammer or whatever, Jim would have won the massive, stuffed starship), and said, “Oh, yeah?  Wait until your dick is swollen to the size of a Laurentian funderbug, as it leaks virulent, burning pus through engorged papules bigger than your eyeballs.  And _then_ say it’s not a threat.”  
  
Oh, bullshit.  Even if it was true, bullshit.  After two years of diplomatic missions, trade missions, and “what the hell is _this_?!” missions, Bones didn’t have one space rant left that could actually freak Jim out.  ( _Not_ that they ever had to start with.)  
  
“Sounds like someone would need three hands for that.”  As they say, to subvert was the sincerest way to flatter.  “Any recommendations?”  
  
Jim was having trouble with that smirk again.  
  
Bones said “I hate you” in a tone that screamed “I’m done with your shit for now, but I’ll be back for more later” and walked away, shaking his head and muttering mutinous things.  
  
“I’ve heard yours are legendary?” Jim called after him.  He smiled when Bones threw up an obscene gesture and wondered, not for the first time, which person Jim _hadn’t_ pissed off to get this life.  
  
(On harder days, the ones that came every now and then but less and less often, that question was real but asked unnecessarily, because the person was absolutely Chris Pike.)  
  
That took care of everyone who would be liable to drag him off _Enterprise_ for a week of rip-roaring, been-there-done-that fun on just-another starbase.  Maybe Jim was getting old, because even “water park in space!” sounded tiresome, if not flat-out mortifying and inappropriate.  
  
Introducing, the second constant: once a Captain, nothing but a Captain.  
  
Even as much as he would never trade this—his rank, his ship, his crew, his life (for anything _except_ his ship and his crew)—he regretted not making the climb.  For not being on the ass end of an Engineering crew and blowing up stills behind the Captain’s back.  (Yeah, he totally knew about all _four_ and _really, four?!_ )  
  
For not having a nerve-destroying run as Chief Engineer and getting the chance to personally eject the hell out of a few warp cores.  For not being First Officer (for more than ten minutes), the pull-your-hair-out, kill-me-now, go-to between the crew and the Captain, even ones who talked to themselves or did _whatever_.  
  
Point being: Starfleet was all about the journey, not the destination, and a Captain could only be everything _before_ they were Captain.  That was the game, and he’d cheated his way to the end on the first move.

***

Officially, Scotty was Acting Captain, one of two of the senior command crew who had volunteered to stay ship-side.  Chekov was the second.  And then there was Lieutenant Riedi and, of course, Keenser.  All four _Enterprise’s_ brightest engineers.  
  
Now, Jim could see Scotty choosing _Enterprise_ over gallivanting around 101, but he couldn’t see Chekov doing it, unless _science_ was about to happen.  
  
Jim didn’t need to ask or snoop.  A month and a half ago, he’d approved warp-phase experiments to be performed at Scotty’s discretion, which Scotty had actually “never gotten around to.  You push her too hard, Captain.”  
  
The crew was going to break his bullshit-o-meter.  It really couldn’t take three more years.  
  
Five hours into shore leave, the ship well-deserted, Jim leisurely made his way to Engineering, _Enterprise’s_ corridors empty and glistening white.  He could mark all the spots where bad things had happened—he could even name the who, when, where, and how of those who had died—but he turned that part of himself off for now, and, hopefully, for the week to come.  
  
“Laddie, go make sure the deflector array is powered down, and you, Lad, make sure we’re runnin’ tertiary diagnostics.  Oooh, this is gonna be pure dead _brilliant_!”  
  
Jim heard Scotty, but he saw Chekov first – and likewise.  Chekov’s eyes grew comically wide.  
  
“Captain!  You are…wearing the wrong shirt?”  
  
Jim shook his head negatively.  Innocently, even.  Sure, red wasn’t his color, but neither was gold.  
  
“Nope.  Scotty’s the Captain.  I’m on leave.”  
  
Chekov crunched his brow together.  “But you are here?”  
  
“So are you.”  
  
Chekov opened his mouth, stopped, and then nodded.  “Aye, Captain?”  
  
Up a level, Jim caught sight of Keenser, who raised a hand in greeting, blinked, and then stared down at Scotty, who, thank god, still looked _really_ excited.  That was a relief, because Chekov just seemed freaked out, like the universe was going to implode if the Captain wore a red shirt and came down to Engineering.  
  
On a serious note, Jim was running the risk of ending up the Captain whose quirk was to play dress up and crash parties—or, worse, having a more seriously worded version of that get back to Command.  Maybe it was worth it.  
  
“Jimbo!”  
  
There was no telling how much Jim actually hated that nickname.  Probably just below “Perfect Hair” and all the other dumb shit only Scotty could think up and then _actually say_.  
  
“What’re you doin’?  You’re wearin’ the wrong shirt.  Wait, should I be in gold?”  
  
“No,” Jim said, laidback even if he didn’t feel it.  “I majored in Engineering and never got to use it.”  
  
Well.  Debatable.  No one talked about that, so, ostensibly, there would be no debate.  Also, it didn’t take a genius to jump around on a warp core.  
  
“My dissertation was actually on infinite multi-amplitude single-frequency group velocities in relation to wave function quasi-collapse.  Can’t resist.”  
  
Jim was offended—seriously offended—by the looks Scotty and Chekov were giving him.  As if Starfleet gave starships to just _anyone_.  
  
Lieutenant Riedi shuffled back into the main section of Engineering, where Jim was being studied like a brand new species, and poked her head between Scotty and Chekov.  
  
Honestly, Riedi always struck Jim as sort of a nervous woman with a palpable lack of confidence – indisputably competent but painfully unaware of it.  Jim didn’t often misread people, but maybe he’d misread Riedi, because Riedi grinned, nodded, and said, “This is great!  If we break the ship, we can blame it on the Captain, instead of hiding it from him like we planned to.”  
  
Chekov slapped his forehead and muttered, “Oy, oy, oy.”  Scotty turned and glared.  Keenser shook his head, quiet as ever.  Jim smiled the sort of smile that Uhura said was going to give him eye wrinkles.  Riedi kept on grinning, because she _got it._  
  
“All right, all right.  Let’s get to work!” Scotty huffed, not before slapping Riedi on the back of the head.  Jim saw _nothing_.  “Mr. Kirk, get in Jeffries 6 and disconnect the desequencer, before you blow us all to high heaven and make the Captain wonder where the hell his ship went.”  
  
There was the third constant: what couldn’t be hidden from the Captain was blamed on the Captain.  
  
Yeah.  And now Jim knew.  Assholes.  
  
\--end


End file.
